Becoming Adam Kenworthy

The sight of my face in the  mirror or my hands on the keyboard remind me that I am a fifty-one year old woman.  I forget sometimes, you know?

I feel like myself on the inside and the Myself that I know is the girl who composed songs at the keyboard and marveled at a round October moon that one night at college.  I knew with clarity that I would always remember that specific moment. My truest self is twenty-four on the inside, flexible and spry, curious and smart and young.

But on the outside.  Well, the outside of me is graying and a little achy.  I have eyelids that make me rethink my judgmental stance on the vanity of plastic surgery.

On one (age-spotted) hand, I’m cool with getting older.  Naps?  Bring them on.  Reading all afternoon?  Yes, please.  Stepping aside while the young ‘uns take over the world with their newfangled technology and excessive facial piercings?  Whatever.  Bring me some tea.

However, on the other (veiny) hand, just like I once wanted to be Jo (in Little Women), sometimes I wish I could be Adam Kenworthy.

I first saw Adam on The Real Housewives of New York.  (Don’t judge me.)  He was Luann’s chef but then Carole Radziwill (author of What Remains, a beautiful memoir) met him and started to date him (even though he’s quite a bit younger than she) and now I follow him on Instagram.  His Insta-stories especially make me wish I were him.

(It’s quite ludicrous, actually.)

He’s riding a bicycle with a wire basket through New York streets, swerving around taxis, buying organic vegetables from vendors.  He’s running along the Hudson River, giving a personal report on the weather.  He’s creating artistically arranged meals composed entirely of vegetables, highlighting micro-greens that my family wouldn’t eat if you paid them cash.

Basically, Adam Kenworthy is winning at life.  He’s free.  He’s confident.  He’s living in New York City and riding a bicycle with a basket through its taxi-filled streets.  (This is my imaginary version of Adam Kenworthy, of course.  I don’t know him.)

Now, perhaps his interior life is dull.  Maybe he doesn’t read or think or make any sacrifices that benefit other people.  How would I know?

I know I can’t become Adam Kenworthy.

Maybe I can become a surfer or a long-distance bicyclist or a person who mails out her Christmas cards before Valentine’s Day.

A girl can dream.

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